


calling me back again

by attheborder



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Catfishing, Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, kink-adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29294979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attheborder/pseuds/attheborder
Summary: “It’s me. Solomon. We were talking, earlier?”John’s concerned look only deepened. “We were?”“Remember?Firstinline86,that’s me. Military discipline, humiliation, power play. You’rePleasure_And_Grace,yeah? Ready for me to show you your place, you said.”
Relationships: John Irving/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 28
Kudos: 48
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2021





	calling me back again

**Author's Note:**

> For Terror Rarepair Week 2021, and a very happy late 206th birthday to John Irving.

It was already snowing heavily when Sol’s Uber pulled up to the address he’d been given. He made a mad dash from the road to the curb through the open gate without really taking in his surroundings, so it wasn’t till he was up the steps that he realized: this was a nice house. _Really_ nice—proper end-of-terrace, beautiful blue door and ornate doorbell. He’d known from plugging in the location that it was a posh neighborhood, but he’d expected some sort of basement flat or coach-house situation, not—whatever this was. 

The door opened. The man standing there, thank God, looked exactly like his pictures. Beautiful grey-green eyes, soft-looking brown hair, manicured beard; he wore a navy jumper Sol recognized from his favorite photo of him, a cropped version of some larger group shot, with John—that was his name, or so he’d said—smiling shyly and holding a pint. 

“Sorry I’m a bit late,” Sol said. “Couldn’t find my spreader bar—under the bed of course, swear I’d looked there first. You gonna let me in or d’you want to watch me turn into an icicle?” 

John blinked, and then stood aside. Sol shouldered his way through the spotless foyer and into an equally stunning front room, all clean lines and hardwood and glass; a sleek stationary bicycle in the corner, the kind with a big screen, and neatly stacked body weights beside it. Above the sofa and between the bookshelves were beautifully framed art prints, most of which seemed to be depicting Jesus in some way or another. Lots of gold halos and bare torsos. 

Sol set his leather bag down on the rug with a thump. John looked taken aback—probably surprised at how heavy it seemed, compared to how easily Sol had been hefting it. He was just about to shuck his jacket and ask where the bedroom was, or if John preferred to start in here, when John cleared his throat and said politely, “Sorry, I’m a bit confused—ah—who are you, exactly?” 

Sol frowned. “It’s me. Solomon. We were talking, earlier?” 

John’s concerned look only deepened. “We were?” 

“ _Firstinline86,_ that’s me. Military discipline, humiliation, power play. You’re _Pleasure_And_Grace,_ yeah? Ready for me to show you your place, you said.” 

John was making a face like a deer in the headlights. Christ. Was he the sort to set up a bunch of dates, and then lose track of them? There was nothing that bothered Sol more than men who didn’t keep their shit in order. 

“I—I really think you must be mistaken—you’ve got the wrong house. I’ve never—I don’t—I’m not gay, I don’t do any of that. You should—” 

“Oh, you’re fucking kidding me. Yes you _do,_ John, been talking to you for days, you told me all the dirty fucking things you want me to do to you, here, here—I’ll prove it to you—” 

He pulled out his phone and opened up their correspondence, which spanned the last week, mostly conducted in the late hours of the night, Sol with a joint in his mouth and his cock in his hand, swiping back and forth between John’s innocent-looking selfies and the steady stream of desperate filth coming through in the chat window. Sol read some prime cuts out loud, to see if it might jog John’s memory: 

_“I need to be deviously seduced and fucked to within an inch of my life... I need to take your big cock and don’t touch mine or even let me use it at all… I’ve done wrong I’ve been a bad boy please punish me Solomon…_ ringing any bells?” 

Instead of crumpling with acceptance, falling at Sol’s feet and pressing his mouth desperately against the bulge at the tight crotch of Sol’s camo trousers—the ideal scenario that had been building up in Sol’s mind as he read—John began to sputter incoherently, his face going red as a tomato with rage. 

Sol held up his hands placatingly. “Hey, hey, hey there, calm down, now, no need to get worked up—” 

“Cornelius Hickey,” spat John, “that disgusting man, that—that _wanker—_! _”_

“Who?” 

John snatched the phone from Sol’s hand and began to scroll frantically back through the messages. “He’s from work—I reported him for—for _fraternizing_ in the supply cupboard—he was personally disciplined by the head of our department, blamed it on me, naturally, and this sort of thing”—he gestured madly at the phone— “is _exactly_ his style! Oh, I could _strangle_ the little _freak,_ I could—augh!” 

He trailed off in an agonized cry, and chucked the phone violently back at Sol, who managed miraculously to catch it before it hit the floor. 

They stood there awkwardly. John’s fists were balled up at his sides and he looked so pitifully, furiously sad—Sol wanted nothing more than to wrench those hands behind his back and secure them there with metal or plastic, force him to breathe into the bedsheets with Sol’s knee on his back until he was fully repentant and ready for Sol’s cock. Didn’t much seem like that had half a chance in hell of happening now, though. 

The storm had worsened in the last few minutes. The wind was whistling through the tall trees on the street outside and the snow was swirling in a frantic frigid dance, visible just past the wide front windows. As he calmed himself, it became clear that John was having a severe moral crisis about the idea of punting Sol right back out into that weather. Sol didn’t have to wait long for the hammer to fall. 

“I ... Do you want something to eat? I—I’d just made dinner, before you showed up. There ought to be enough for both of us.” 

Sol felt more than a bit odd sitting there at John’s glorious hardwood dining table being served some sort of strange vegetarian mush, all the while wearing his chest harness and jockstrap underneath his clothes. The food was not entirely tasteless but it was far less interesting than the man who’d cooked it: Sol couldn’t help letting his eyes linger on John, wondering what on earth would lead to such elaborate effort being exerted in order to get one over on him. There had to be more to the story, right? 

“So what do you do?” asked John suddenly, perhaps overdoing it on the chipper tone. “I mean. Other than, er. This.” 

“Construction,” grunted Sol. 

“Oh. That’s… that’s very nice.” 

“And what do—no, no, hold on, let me guess,” said Sol. He had a knack for this. The house seemed luxe enough to be income-independent—whatever this bloke did, he didn’t _have_ to do it, he did it because he liked it—and what sort of thing would a man like John enjoy doing? Sol’s intuition said _spreadsheets._

“Accounts for a tech company. Or databases,” he said confidently.

“You had a look on my LinkedIn, didn’t you!” said John, outraged. 

“Swear I didn’t. Don’t even know your last name, do I?” 

“Then how—” 

Sol tapped his temple. “I’ll never tell.” 

Whoever this Hickey character was, he’d evidently been paying close attention to John. In their conversations, he’d mentioned offhand John’s diet _(I’m a vegetarian but I want you to feed me your cock till I choke on it),_ John’s religion _(Can’t stop thinking sinful thoughts I pray they’ll go away but they never do),_ and John’s fitness regime _(I’m in fair shape I can keep up with you but I want to be pushed to my limits)._

Did that mean he was right about John’s predilections in bed as well? He’d said he wasn’t gay, but in Sol’s experience, men would say all sorts of things, didn’t mean much at all. Hickey might well know John better than John knew himself. Might’ve been doing him a favor, by sending Sol his way, instead of playing a juvenile prank like he’d thought.

“Well, thanks for the food and all, but I’d best be off,” said Sol, rising to his feet.

“No—I mean, you really shouldn’t,” said John, quickly standing as well. “It’s still horrid out there, isn’t it.” It wasn’t nearly as bad now as it had been. But Sol couldn’t resist letting John take his flimsy excuse to its logical conclusion: “I was going to put on a movie—have you seen _Fellowship of the Ring?_ ” 

“Er… no,” said Sol. “Don’t really watch that sort of thing.” 

“Oh, you’ll _love_ it—really, incredible performances, and the special effects have held up amazingly well…” 

And so Sol found himself on John’s beautiful slate-grey sofa (which must have cost more than every piece of furniture in Sol’s flat put together) slouching into the cushions a respectable distance away from John, who was sitting up straight-backed and interjecting the incomprehensible fantasy adventure onscreen every few minutes with bits of trivia.

The whole time, Sol was feeling the tug of the tools in his bag, sitting smugly nearby. He’d been unbelievably horny before even leaving the house—on the way over had been imagining nonstop the sounds John might make, the marks Sol might leave on the pale spread of his back.

And now they were just sitting here watching a fucking _film._ How had it come to this? 

John, though calmed by the orchestral music and sweeping vistas emerging from his high-tech AV setup, still had an air of twitchiness underneath that Sol just knew could be tamed with the measured application of a few well-placed restraints. For his part Sol was shifting uncomfortably on the plush cushions, crossing and re-crossing his legs, fiddling with the keys in his pocket and tapping his fingers on his thigh. How long was this damn movie? 

“Are you still hungry?” John said suddenly. 

“Yeah, a bit,” said Sol, because it was better than admitting to his own thoughts and getting poor John so worked up again that he punched a wall, or worse, punched Sol. Although perhaps if he could encourage a bit of a tussle, it might lead in a roundabout way to something more intimate… 

John took out his phone and began to look through it. “Right, I’ll just… is pizza okay?” 

“Absolutely.” Knowing John it would be some sort of gourmet dish, pizza in name only, but Sol was never one to pass up the promise of more food. 

On the TV, the little men on their magic quest had just gone down into a big spooky cave when a soft chime rang out—Sol hadn’t known there was such a thing as a posh doorbell sound, but that certainly was one. 

“That was quick,” said Sol. 

John hit pause on the movie. “I’ll get it, you stay here...” He got up and disappeared around the corner into the foyer. Sol heard the sound of the door swinging open, and then the rush of the cold wind outside, and then a man’s voice said, “Hi—John?” 

“I am, but, ah… you’re not the delivery...?” 

“It’s me. Tom. We were talking. Domination and discipline, yeah…? Sorry I’m a bit early, do you need some more time to get ready, then?” 

Sol leaned back on the sofa, folding his arms across his chest and putting his boots right up on the glass coffee table, and grinned widely as his own conversation from earlier started to play itself out all over again. Oh, this was going to be _fun._

***

**Author's Note:**

> which tom, you ask? that's for YOU to decide ;D 
> 
> i'm on [twitter](http://twitter.com/areyougonnabe) and [tumblr!](http://areyougonnabe.tumblr.com)


End file.
